


earn it

by leaveanote



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Ep 6 fix-it, First Time Together, Fix-It, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Apologies, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: It's because he needs help with Ciri's training, that he goes to search for Jaskier.That's what Geralt tells himself.***“You’re right,” he says heavily. “That’s what it comes down to. You deserve better. You always have.”“You don’t get to decide that for me!” Jaskier says, color rising in his cheeks.“I know,” Geralt says. He sighs. “You’re right. You’re right. And now I’m asking you to come away with me, but not to the coast. To do the exact opposite of getting away together. To come put yourself in danger to help raise a child who might be the savior of all of this, and not only because I need you, because I do, but because…”“What?” Jaskier’s heart is pounding so hard Geralt would be able to hear it without his witcher senses. “Why, Geralt?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 46
Kudos: 557
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	earn it

It lasts way less time than it usually does, which Geralt should have expected. The respite, that is. The period where Jaskier’s been well and chased away and Geralt can finally get some peace and quiet, before he starts missing him. Tends to take half a year, a year at least, in the long, strange way time moves for someone as inhuman as Geralt, which is, after all, is a big part of the whole fucking point.

And he hadn’t, though. Expected it. 

Because it’s only roughly six weeks later that Geralt finds himself fighting back frustration he has no way to vent. He’s in the one place in the world he feels somewhat comfortable anymore, Kaer Morhen, and he’s just started figuring out the rhythms of Ciri’s training, just started leaning into his own destiny entwined with the Law of Surprise. He’s doing something purposeful, not just the patterns of monster-hunting, and in so many ways it feels right. It’s strange, and challenging, but it feels like where he’s supposed to be.

Geralt of Rivia has never been so angry with himself in his life.

He had never done it so cruelly before. Pushed Jaskier away. Sniped and snapped and begged for peace, but had never said...what he’d said. And Jaskier had always given as good as he got, in his own way, sniffed and backed off and said he’d better be off to the nearest village for a nice long while as there were songs wanting writing and women wanting bedding, and when he crossed paths with Geralt again, they fell into step. No need to talk about why they’d parted. No need to apologize.

Geralt’s good at most of Ciri’s training. He hadn’t thought he would be, but he is. She’s a quick learner. He can teach her tracking, survival skills, how to wield a sword and work her feet around an opponent. That, he can do. That, he _is_ doing. Keep her alive, sure. Make her tough, fucking yes.

But...make her laugh? Comfort her? Lull her to sleep when she shakes in terror and anticipation, haunted by memories of brutality she never should have had to witness? Reassure her in her grief, as she mourns her grandmother, her family, everything she’s ever known?

He has no fucking idea how to do any of that.

And that’s what he tells himself, very firmly, is what motivates him very early on in Ciri’s training to leave her in Lambert and Eskel’s half-capable hands, to go and find the one person he’s ever met who knows anything about emotions. More than Geralt’s willing to admit he does. 

It doesn’t take very long.

He’s been keeping tabs.

He always does. 

* * *

“Help with _what?”_

“Er. Ciri.” Geralt shifts uncomfortably. “The—my Child Surprise.” 

They’re outside an inn not too many days travel from Kaer Morhen. Jaskier had been crooning a song Geralt didn’t understand, only caught the tail end of, something about _her sweet kiss._ Seems new. There’s none of the bard’s usual bawdy energy in his voice, only longing and frustration. Geralt figured it must be about a woman Jaskier’d met in the meantime, and valiantly doesn’t think about why that sends discomfort curdling in his gut. 

He waits in the back of the room. Jaskier catches sight of him and nearly drops his lute. 

Geralt’s first thought is that he’s never, ever seen Jaskier like this. Brow genuinely furrowed, real distrust and hurt etched into the lines of his usually soft face.

And then he realizes that’s not true. It’s the same look Jaskier gave him the last time he’d seen him, on the mountain. When Geralt had been the worst he’s ever been. Proved himself to be the exact fucking monster Jaskier had single-handedly convinced most of the Continent he _isn’t._

He hates it. And he hates himself just as much.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” Jaskier asks. Suspicion and caution weigh down his voice. 

Geralt hesitates. He hadn’t exactly thought this bit through. 

_Want you to come do what you always do. Talk. Laugh. Make music. Lighten the crush of the world. Lighten the impossible darkness by being the damned dawn, all the damned time._

“Er,” he says instead, and Jaskier shakes his head.

“Because I _thought,”_ he says pointedly, “that you wanted nothing more to do with me. Isn’t that right?”

Geralt stares at him, a muscle working in his jaw. He should have known this wouldn’t be easy. But Jaskier’s never pushed back like this, not ever.

And somewhere buried so deep it’s a bruise at the core of him, Geralt knows why. Knows what Jaskier had been asking. Knows why he lashed out so hard in response, knows why it hurt Jaskier more than anything else he’d ever said to him. 

“That I’m the reason for the shit in your life?” Jaskier continues, his voice pitching up. Geralt groans, tugs him away from curious eyes. He shoves Jaskier into a nearby foyer and blocks the entry with his body for the sake of privacy. “That it would be the one blessing you’d ask life to give you, to take _me_ off your hands?”

Of course he remembers every venomous word Geralt spat at him. His eyes are startlingly bright in the inn’s candlelight, his hair falling into those long lashes as he moves to emphasize his point.

“Er.” Geralt says again. He’s blowing this. He knows that. He doesn’t know what he expected. That’s the _point,_ he’s not _good_ at this, Jaskier deserves better than _him._ It’s all very fucking upsetting and disorienting, not to mention that here in this foyer Jaskier smells like he’s never smelled before. 

Like he’s been crying, or maybe like he’s on the brink of it. And like he’s been singing until his throat’s sore. And like he’s been nuzzled up to a dozen sweaty bodies, but Geralt doesn’t scent the completion of sex anywhere on him, just. Companionship. A blur of people to tangle with, to pass the time with, but nothing serious. 

And like anger. He’s never been angry at Geralt before, not really. Like hurt, and something like fear, and that, _that,_ Geralt can’t stand. It’s not a primal fear, not fear for his life, he’s not scared Geralt will wound him.

Physically, at least.

“So that’s it.” Jaskier tilts his chin up in defiance. His evening beardstart catches the light. He gives a small sniff, wrinkling his nose, and fuck, just fucking being around him. Geralt doesn’t want to stop. He never does. He _has_ to, but he never does. He thought he had to. At least. “Still can’t talk to me, can you? Just came to find me because you say you _need_ something, even though you’ve made it quite brilliantly clear time and time again you have never needed me for anything in your life and you never will?”

“I don’t need your help.” Geralt says. 

Jaskier flinches, his brow furrowing deeper. 

“Well, _fine_ then—” he shoves at Geralt’s chest, but Geralt doesn’t move. 

“Well, I do,” Geralt amends, “but that’s not why I’m here.”

“What?” 

And there’s no going back now, and this was certainly _not_ in the plan, or perhaps it always was and Geralt just couldn’t admit it to himself until he got here, but Geralt thinks about how it felt, in Kaer Morhen. How everything, everything is falling into place, and the future looms like a coming storm and he can’t get through any of it without—

“Jaskier,” he says. “I’ve worked out what pleases me.”

A moment passes that feels like a century. 

Jaskier’s face shifts about a thousand times. Suspicion to confusion to realization to hope, back to suspicion again, but all Geralt can smell on him is hope. It sloughs from him waves, sun-bright and warm, and Geralt’s own hesitation washes away within it.

“What the fuck,” Jaskier says, his voice trembling only slightly, “do you mean by _that?”_

“I’m sorry,” Geralt tells him, for the first time in decades. “I’m so—Jaskier. I’m so _fucking_ sorry.” Geralt registers dimly that his fists are clenched so hard at his sides his nails dig into his palms. “I didn’t think—I’m not _supposed_ to. Feel about others. The way I feel about you.” _Love. I’m not supposed to love. Was taught I don’t deserve it, shouldn’t seek it out, shouldn’t want to._ But one thing at a time. 

Jaskier’s breath is coming very quick now, his open doublet heaving. Geralt wants to put a hand on his chest, steady it. 

“You’re mortal,” he continues.

“So are you,” Jaskier interrupts, but Geralt shakes his head.

“Not—it’s not the same.” 

Jaskier huffs, but lets him go on. He fiddles with the strap of his lute, but doesn’t stop watching Geralt with wide, bright eyes.

“Look,” Geralt sighs. “ _Everyone_ I’ve ever—cared for. Has betrayed me, left me, or died. And I just couldn’t—”

“What about her?” There’s no bite in Jaskier’s voice. No jealousy or defensiveness, the way there used to be, just resignation. It’s a fact, she’s a fact of Geralt’s life, and he owes Jaskier that much.

“That’s part of what drew me to her,” Geralt grunts an admission. “She is...a storm. She was never going to want us to last.” He takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to say it, but he can’t leave it out. “Her life is entwined with mine, Jaskier. Forever. But that doesn’t mean I _love_ her. Not in that way. Even if I might have thought I did.” 

Jaskier swallows, shaking his head. 

“Fine. That’s—fine, Geralt. But then—” he spreads out his hands, gesturing between them. “What are you saying? What are you asking? Aside from giving a long, _long-_ overdue apology, which you will understand if I don’t jump to accept—”

“I do,” Geralt says. “I—know I have to prove it.” He gulps. Takes one careful step closer. Jaskier’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t move away. The scent of fear, Geralt notices, has lessened. Replaced with an even brighter, rougher hope. “You asked me to come away with you. And I thought I was doing us both a favor by pushing you away.”

“You were selfish,” Jaskier cuts him off, correcting him. “You were hurt, and you took it out on me because you _always_ do, and usually I just give your shit right back to you, but this time you said it like you meant it. This time you said it right when I was being—when I was being more vulnerable with you than I—fuck.”

Geralt’s nails pierce his palms.

“You’re right,” he says heavily. “That’s what it comes down to. You deserve better. You always have.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me!” Jaskier says, color rising in his cheeks.

“I know,” Geralt says. He sighs. “You’re right. You’re _right._ And now I’m asking you to come away with me, but not to the coast. To do the exact opposite of getting away together. To come put yourself in danger to help raise a child who might be the savior of all of this, and not only because I need you, because I do, but because…”

“What?” Jaskier’s heart is pounding so hard Geralt would be able to hear it without his witcher senses. “Why, Geralt?”

A muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitches.

He unclenches his fists.

He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Hears Jaskier inhale sharply. When he opens his eyes, Jaskier’s a step closer. 

“Because I want you. And I want you with me,” Geralt says gruffly. “And I don’t want you to leave again unless _you_ want to.”

Jaskier’s lips are parted slightly. Geralt can see the wet opening of his mouth. His eyelashes cast long shadows on his soft cheeks. 

“And?” he pushes. Geralt growls.

“And,” he agrees. “Because I love you.”

Quicker than he’s ever seen him move before, Jaskier flings his arms round Geralt’s shoulders.

“You’d better mean it, witcher,” he says, breathless. 

“I mean it,” Geralt says, and kisses him. 

Geralt has kissed a lot of people. Perhaps a hundred women and half as many men, but no one, nothing, no experience in his life has prepared him for how Jaskier meets him. How he melts in his arms, and then kisses Geralt back with such furious, desperate relief, a hunger that’s so clearly been a part of his being for fucking decades that’s at last, at _last,_ being sated. 

Jaskier is very good at kissing. Another thing Geralt should have expected, had very decisively not let himself think about, and chose to dismiss as bluster and bravado, but. _No._

Jaskier parts Geralt’s lips, coaxes his strong tongue against Geralt’s own. Geralt lets him lead and he picks a hot, fierce rhythm like he’s taking as much as he can get before Geralt changes his mind. One hand cups the back of Geralt’s head and threads through the tangles of hair at the base of his throat, the other goes to the small of Geralt’s back, pulling them flush together. Because unlike all of Geralt’s other partners, they’re really not different in height, and Geralt realizes how specifically thrilling this fact is when Jaskier presses their hips together. 

Geralt kisses him back hard, but keeps his own hands cupping Jaskier’s cheek, stroking his soft hair, gentle and tender, heady with the rush of it. 

“Hey,” he says presently, pulling back. Jaskier chases the kiss as he goes, lingering with his eyes closed for an extra moment, as if he’s terrified it’ll have been a dream once he opens them. With a sinking feeling, Geralt knows that’s his fault. It’ll take a good long while to build that trust. But it’s the thing he’s surest about. “Jask,” he murmurs. He drags his thumb across Jaskier’s kiss-swollen lower lip. Gods, he’s pretty. “‘m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

Jaskier huffs a little laugh, and it’s so much like the merry, sweet scoundrel he was before Geralt fucking crushed him that it hurts, but Geralt accepts the pain. Whatever it takes, to heal him. 

“You’d better prove it,” Jaskier says. His voice is pitched lower than Geralt’s heard it, love and hope and the intoxicating scent of Jaskier’s lust sloughing from him. 

“I mean to,” Geralt assures him. The silence that follows should verge on awkward. Neither’s quite sure exactly how to continue. But it’s not, it’s a dawn of things, warm and fresh and a _start._

“Er,” Jaskier says at last. “Should we—get going? Back to your child, wherever she is? Should I grab my things? Haven’t got many things, but—”

Geralt shakes his head.

“It’s nearly two days ride. No point in heading out now, we can go in the morning. She’s fine.” 

Jaskier nods, waiting. 

“D’you need to eat?” Geralt asks.

“No, I did before I went on.” Jaskier shifts his weight, ears burning, and Geralt realizes something. 

“That song,” he says gruffly. “ _Her Sweet Kiss._ That wasn’t about—she—fuck, Jaskier. Was that about...me?”

Jaskier looks at him, eyebrows raised. He sighs.

“Not everything’s about you, Geralt.” He rolls his eyes, starts off toward the room he’s got at the inn. He pauses. Glances over his shoulder, and adds, softly. “That one is, though, yeah. Every song I write is. Since we met. Never behaved like it was otherwise.” And he strides down the corridor.

Geralt stares after him dumbstruck, for a moment too long, before nearly sprinting to follow. 

Jaskier lets Geralt enter the inn’s room first. It’s small, with just a narrow bedframe, though they’ve shared smaller through the years. He hears Jaskier turn the lock behind them, and Geralt realizes he’s more nervous than he’s ever been in a bedroom. 

This is what he’s supposed to be _good at._ Fighting and fucking, that’s it, he’s never had _any_ doubts about himself in that arena.

But he’s shit at emotions, and that’s what got him into this mess, and that’s what this is about more than anything. 

“I don’t—” he starts. He clears his throat, turns to Jaskier to discover with horror that Jaskier’s staring at him with a deeply amused expression. Even in his embarrassment, Geralt feels a pang of relief that Jaskier’s starting to look like himself again. “That is. We don’t—I don’t _need_ —”

Jaskier shakes his head, unbuttoning his doublet. 

“I do, Geralt. Not if you don’t want to, but if you want me like you say you want me, like it _looks_ like you want me,” and here he gestures meaningfully at Geralt’s tight, tented trousers, “then I need you to show me.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Geralt murmurs. 

“I trust you,” Jaskier says, simply, immediately, earnestly, and something in Geralt fractures. “Did once. I do again. I trust you, Geralt.” He meets Geralt’s eyes, and he doesn’t look away. “Earn it.”

Geralt growls, rakes his fingers through his own hair.

“Fuck. _Fuck._ ” He closes the space between them in two strides. “Okay,” he says, and kisses Jaskier hard this time. 

Geralt moves his mouth to the spot behind Jaskier’s ear. He paws the doublet open and delves his tongue into the sweet hollows of his throat, runs his palms over the hair on Jaskier’s chest, listening, scenting with every move to learn what Jaskier likes best, what he doesn’t care for. He waits for any signs of hesitation, discomfort, but it’s only that, only love and lust and hope rising off his bard in the most beautiful medley. 

Geralt lowers him onto the bed and Jaskier splays out, reaching for Geralt’s collar, tugging him close and then tugging at his laces. Geralt lets him, even though he itches to just rip the clothes off both of them. He can sense Jaskier’s been waiting to do this a long, long time. So has he, but he can wait his turn. He owes him that. He owes him everything.

And he finds the intimacy almost overwhelming, as Jaskier undresses them both. He nearly doesn’t look away from Geralt’s eyes, as he unties Geralt’s trousers with practiced hands. A pang of jealousy shoots through Geralt at Jaskier’s obvious experience, but it’s nothing he didn’t know, of course, and besides. _Good. You should know what you want. Know what to ask for. Want to give you what you like best. Nothing else._

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, eyes widening, when they’re both bare at last. His eyes take in Geralt’s body, his evident want. 

Geralt scoffs.

“You’ve seen me naked a hundred times before,” he says automatically, but he knows it’s different. Because who’s he to talk when he’s fucking swooning at Jaskier, unclothed.

Yes, he’d seen him naked. Bathing in rivers, washing his clothes, sweltering in the heat. But now he’s spread out and wanting, _asking,_ and Geralt’s going to finally, finally let himself answer. 

“It’s different and you know it,” Jaskier says, “and besides. I wanted you each of those times, too.”

“Fuck.” Geralt leans over him to kiss him, and then they’re touching in a thousand new places, and both of them gasp at the sensation. Geralt straddles his waist, rocks his own thick erection against Jaskier’s, making the bard’s eyes flutter shut. He kisses the corner of his mouth, his cheekbones, his eyelids, the scar on his throat. “You are so fucking beautiful, d’you know that?”

Jaskier hums contentedly, wrapping his limbs around Geralt and moving with him. 

“Yes,” he grins, “but don’t stop telling me.”

“Brat,” Geralt murmurs, stroking his hair. “You have the sweetest, loveliest damned face I’ve ever seen. Your eyelashes alone have driven me to distraction more times than I can count. Your mouth—” he groans, shuddering, quickening the pace at which he rocks against Jaskier. “Too fucking pretty.” He kisses it again, then drags his mouth down to lick Jaskier’s nipple until it hardens, palming his chest, his stomach, the newly reachable muscle of his bare thighs. Jaskier _keens_ under him, rolling his body excitedly, and Geralt realizes with certainty that Jaskier would take whatever he gave him. That won’t do. He props himself up. “You have to tell me what you want.” 

“You,” Jaskier says, uselessly. Geralt shakes his head.

“Jask.” He clears his throat. “I’m not doing anything you don’t actually fucking _want_ —”

“I want _you,”_ Jaskier repeats, louder. His eyes are blazing. “In every way. Any way. Any way you’ll have me, don’t you get it? I want—” his voice drops to barely above a whisper. “I want everything, with you.” He bites his lip, seems to shift at the weight of that statement, though Geralt’s just still coming back to himself at the dizzying rush of love and lust and hope that accompanied it. “I do want that gorgeous cock of yours inside me, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Jaskier says in a rush. “Always have. Melitele, I thought _my_ cock was big, but—”

“It is,” Geralt assures him, looking down at it, because it is. It’s thick and long and lovely, curving slightly against Jaskier’s taut belly from its thick patch of dark curls. “I am looking forward to having it inside me, if you’d like that.” Jaskier makes a choked sort of sound that Geralt _very_ much enjoys, that lovely cock of his twitching at the thought. “But I would like to fuck you first, if you’d really like me to.” He looks up at Jaskier again. “Wanna take care of you.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, pupils blown with want. _“Please,”_ and at that, as always, Geralt is lost.

He kisses his way down Jaskier’s chest, his stomach, hoping the bard can tell how much reverence he’s putting in every motion. Hoping he knows Geralt hasn’t kissed anyone else like this, not like this, not ever. And then Geralt reaches Jaskier’s thick cock, where it’s dripping precome steadily on his slim stomach. He spreads Jaskier’s strong thighs, settles between them, holds him at his base and licks one long, filthy, wet strip up his length with the flat of his tongue. 

Jaskier arches off the bed. He makes a sound in the back of his throat like he’s been hit, and Geralt does it again and again as Jaskier rolls his hips, and then Geralt wraps his lips around him and swallows him to the hilt. 

“Fuck!” Jaskier cries it loud enough to be heard probably throughout the entire inn, but somehow Geralt doesn’t care. Jaskier feels fucking amazing. He’s so hard, his skin so tender, and he smells like sweat and want and everything Jaskier always smells like. Without slowing, sinking his mouth down around Jaskier’s cock again and again, Geralt takes Jaskier’s balls in his palm, rolls them gently, and savours the spill of precome that follows. All his senses tell him Jaskier is fucking _loving_ this, and nothing else in the world matters anywhere near as much. 

Geralt moves quicker and quicker, darting his gaze up every so often to watch. Jaskier’s head is rolled back, his throat exposed. His hands clench the blankets fitfully, and Geralt realizes he wants to do this every fucking day. He buries his nose in the hair at Jaskier’s base and swallows around him, squeezing Jaskier in his throat.

“Wait,” Jaskier gasps, and Geralt pulls off immediately, heart racing. He hadn’t scented any discomfort, but— “That’s— _far_ too good. I don’t want to come until you fuck me.”

Geralt’s neglected erection throbs between his thighs.

“You sure?” His voice is lower than usual, from having Jaskier’s cock down his throat. He likes it. From how Jaskier’s nostrils flare, he’s not the only one.

“Fucking _yes,_ you idiot, I don’t know how I possibly could have made that clearer.”

“Would’ve liked to take you all the way like that,” Geralt says. Jaskier tilts forward, takes hold of Geralt’s chin.

“Time after next then. I’ll hold you to it.” He plants a kiss on Geralt’s mouth and turns to rummage in his bag by the side of the bed, giving Geralt a rather spectacular view of his ass. Geralt can’t resist palming it, and Jaskier gives a delighted squeak as he reemerges clutching a vial of oil. 

“Time after next?” 

“Mmhmm,” Jaskier presses the vial into Geralt’s hand. “Next time, I’m fucking you.”

“Okay,” Geralt says. “But, for now.” He seizes Jaskier’s thighs and pushes them back, toppling him onto the mattress and exposing his hole. Geralt clicks his tongue, shaking his head. He’s so, so hard. “Too. Fucking. Pretty.” He glances up. Licks his lips. “Can I?”

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes, his eyes heavy with want. _“Yes._ Melitele, Geralt, I never thought— _ahh!”_

Whatever it is Jaskier never thought, Geralt doesn’t get to hear, though he has a decent idea. Probably that Geralt wouldn’t be even remotely considerate with him in bed, and it’s not like he’s been considerate to Jaskier anywhere else, so refuting that expectation is something else Geralt will have to earn.

Gladly.

He laves the flat of his tongue over Jaskier’s hole, savouring, and he can’t help but match Jaskier’s moan. Jaskier tastes like soap and sweat and the fabric of his clothes, and like _him,_ here at the core of him, so undeniably him and _his_ that Geralt can hardly fucking stand it. He circles Jaskier’s hole with the tip of his tongue, mouths at the globes of his ass until Jaskier bears down on him, and then he pushes his tongue inside and feels Jaskier’s thighs go weak, resting on his shoulders.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, his voice strained. Geralt nudges deeper into his tight clench, and Jaskier sighs, thighs spreading wider. “Oh, fuck, Geralt, that’s—” but for _once,_ Jaskier is at a loss for words.

Geralt allows himself a single smirk. He’s not done missing Jaskier’s chatter yet, not by a long shot, but this trick will certainly come in handy.

He spreads Jaskier wider with his fingers, parting him so his tongue can work deeper inside. He opens Jaskier with the thick muscle of his tongue, caressing as deep into him as he can, his nose brushing up against Jaskier’s balls. He inhales deeply, brings his free hand to Jaskier’s cock to stroke him again.

Jaskier bites off a sound, rough and sweet.

“You’d better fuck me, witcher.” He tugs on Geralt’s hair. “I don’t have your stamina. And,” he breaks off in a groan as Geralt rubs his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck, that’s unbelievably sexy. _Not_ fair. _How_ can you deign to look so good when you’ve just been fucking me open with that excellent tongue of yours—er, anyway.”

“Yes?” Geralt coats three of his fingers liberally in the vial of oil. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier hisses, his gaze darting between them and Geralt’s erection. He seems to be reckoning with what he’s in for. “ _And,_ you’ve kept me waiting for your cock far long enough, don’t you think?”

“Just a little longer.” Geralt wraps one arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, moves his other hand to circle Jaskier’s entrance. “You’ll get it.” Jaskier tilts up for a kiss, which quickly dissolves into an open-mouthed moan as Geralt slowly, carefully, presses the first finger inside. His breath roughens immediately. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Can feel you pulling me in. Is that good?”

Jaskier nods. His sweaty hair sticks to his temple. Geralt wishes he had a free hand to brush it away. 

“More,” Jaskier says, his voice velvet, and Geralt complies. He fucks him good and slow with two fingers, pressing deeper as he goes. He buries his nose in Jaskier’s hair, to scent for any distress, but mainly to breathe him in. 

_I love you,_ Geralt thinks, and then he remembers he can say it aloud, now.

“I love you,” he says, and Jaskier lets out another strangled little sound. But when he turns up to Geralt, his eyes are warm and bright and full of trust. Geralt is going to earn it. He’s going to prove it. He’s going to fuck up again, but he’s apologized once and he’s going to do it again, and he’s never going to hurt Jaskier the way he once did. He’s going to learn to be someone who deserves him. Who deserves love that’s this fucking soft, and _good._ He’s going to earn it. “You know me better than anyone. You know that.” It isn’t a question. “That terrified me.” Geralt bends to kiss him, pushes his fingers in a little deeper, and Jaskier moves with him. “But I realized losing you terrifies me more. And I’m always scared I’m going to lose you. Always going to be. I’m going to hold onto you for as long as you’ll have me, though.” 

Jaskier groans.

“I love _you,_ you _jerk,_ and I’ll have you for as long as I live, thank you very much.” He rolls off of Geralt’s fingers, pulls Geralt on top of him. “So let me _have_ you now, please.”

Geralt smirks. He pours a good amount of oil onto his cock. A thrill runs through him as Jaskier watches him, jaw dropped in anticipation.

“I’m yours,” Geralt says, honestly. “Just yours.” He leans in close. “I like being yours, Jaskier. It’s better than anything else I’ve ever been.” He takes Jaskier’s lower lip carefully between his teeth, running his tongue along it, and Jaskier shivers. “Thank you,” he says, and enters him. 

“Oh,” Jaskier whispers. His eyes widen, then flutter half-shut. “Oh, _please,”_ he repeats, as the thick head of Geralt’s cock breaches him, _“please,”_ as Geralt pushes in the first few inches, _“please, please, please,”_ when he’s halfway, and then he can’t speak anymore, only nod, which he does very fervently. And then, when Geralt’s fully sheathed, he lets out a long, ragged, terribly demonstrative groan of pleasure, clenching like a vise around him, and Geralt nearly fucking comes right there.

“I like when you beg,” he murmurs, staying totally still, letting Jaskier adjust, and Jaskier whimpers. “But you don’t have to. I’m yours, remember?” 

_“Mine.”_ Jaskier can hardly do more than mouth the word, but he manages a cheeky grin around it anyway. “I like that.”

“Good. Do you want me to move?”

Jaskier’s eyes fly open. He wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders again, though he keeps his thighs parted for him.

_“Yes.”_

Geralt begins to roll his hips. He props himself up on his arms, trapping Jaskier’s hard cock between their stomachs, and makes sure to rub against it as he moves. He keeps his thrusts shallow, but experiments with the angle until he strikes a particular spot that makes Jaskier shout in his ear. 

“Oh—Geralt, please, _please_ —”

“Mm, on second thought, no begging. Not tonight.” Geralt hums, nuzzling Jaskier’s throat. _“Tell_ me what you want, bard. Tell me exactly what you want. You always do, don’t you? Don’t stop now.”

Jaskier swears colorfully, his fingers tangling hard in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt needs to fucking _focus_ not to come just from that. 

“Fuck your magnificent _fucking_ cock,” Jaskier enunciates, “into my ass, right the _fuck_ there. _There._ Hard.” He sucks a bruise into Geralt’s throat, high, just below his ear, and it feels so good Geralt’s hips stutter, right where he’s sunk so deep into Jaskier’s ass.

“You’ll leave a mark.”

“Good,” Jaskier huffs, and sucks another one right next to it. _“Mine.”_

Geralt’s not going to last. 

He leans in close and does just that, fucking into Jaskier’s ass exactly where he wants it. Geralt _wants_ to lean back and watch, to wrap his fist around Jaskier’s beautiful cock too, but Jaskier wants this and so this is what Geralt will give him. 

It proves very, very worth it when Jaskier cries out, embracing Geralt close, and clenches around him. His entire body shakes. Geralt keeps his pace, doesn’t falter, and keeps rubbing against Jaskier’s cock with the muscled plane of his abdomen as he fucks into him, and he’s treated to Jaskier clenching in decadent waves, his hot come spilling all over between them both, his high, sweet, shuddering sound.

Geralt fucks him through it, and when Jaskier’s grip around him slows at last, he moves to pull away, but Jaskier grabs onto him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Geralt reassures. He’s probably going to have to do a lot of that. He doesn’t mind. But Jaskier shakes his head. Fuck. He’s sex-mussed, panting and bruised, and he’s so fucking beautiful Geralt has no fucking idea how he kept his hands off for so long. How he’s ever going to again. He’s going to get teased within an inch of his life by his brothers at Kaer Morhen. He can’t fucking wait.

“Fill me up,” Jaskier whispers, gazing at him with half-lidded eyes, through those lovely lashes. 

“Fuck. Are you—”

“Of course I’m fucking sure,” Jaskier hisses. He digs his heels into Geralt’s ass, pulling him deeper. “Come on. You know how long I’ve wanted this?”

Geralt swallows, and nods. 

This time, he moves just for him. Not seeking, not giving, careful to avoid Jaskier’s softening cock now, just small, hungry rocks of his hips, and even so, Jaskier, open and wet and beautiful, rolls his eyes back and fucking _smiles._ Open-mouthed. In utter, spent, delight. 

It’s not long before Geralt bites back a groan, but Jaskier’s eyes snap open and he relents, letting the low, rough sound pour from him as he comes deep inside Jaskier’s ass. The pleasure, the _release_ of it, is not an unfamiliar sensation, but now that it’s with Jaskier at last it feels sharper, sheerer, more splendid and more encompassing, flooding his veins and his head and his heart, and made all the more intense by the fact that Jaskier beams, even _laughing_ a little, as Geralt fills him up.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing Geralt asks, when he comes back to himself. He pulls out carefully, and this time Jaskier lets him. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says. He’s breathless, but the familiar light in his eyes is back, and it’s dancing. “I’m better than I’ve been in a very, _very_ long time.”

Guilt surges through Geralt, but it’s replaced rather quickly with a slew of other emotions, protectiveness and pleasure and a sweet, terrifying sensation that he’s coming to recognize as love. 

There will be a bath later, and Geralt will wash Jaskier with heightened focus, only to have his efforts rendered useless as Jaskier pushes him right back onto the bed after the bath. Jaskier will fall asleep, but Geralt will stay up for hours until he can’t anymore. Watching the snoring bard curled up against his chest, vowing to himself that he will earn this. 

In the morning, there will be sunlight, and the daybreak of Jaskier’s smile, and far too much breakfast. There will be a journey then, not unlike the many, many journeys they’ve taken before, except this time there’s a promise that goes with it. _Yours._ There’s a long, terrifying path ahead of them, but they’ll take it together, and that makes everything else far more bearable.

And for now, there’s Jaskier, an absolute mussed-up mess of sex and bruises and oil and sweat and come, smiling bigger than Geralt’s ever seen him, in something like disbelief, and love.

“Well,” he says, cuddling close. “Finally found what pleases me.” 

**Author's Note:**

> falls facefirst into a ship nearly a year late to cope with *gestures at everything.*
> 
> this is just pure id-fic, and my take on the reunion that I couldn't get out of my head. thank you to the brilliant creators in this fandom, you are wonderful <3
> 
> edit: you can now find me on tumblr @ [welcomemysentence](https://welcomemysentence.tumblr.com/)


End file.
